


Nowhere Man

by SweetDeceiver



Category: Bob Dylan - Fandom, Tiny Tim - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetDeceiver/pseuds/SweetDeceiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Bob Dylan sees Tiny Tim perform in Greenwich Village and is intrigued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere Man

Through the smoky underground filth of the tiny club, a boy by the name of Bob Dylan slunk along the crumbly brick walls, barely noticed by the bar’s patrons, who sat gambling or talking or drinking or being loud or crying, or doing anything except paying attention to weedy boys in plain clothes who hid in shadows. Nearer the exit, and further from the stage, where there was more light and fresh air, there were the people he had brought with him, or rather, who had brought him with them like a pebble carried by the current of a stream. But he had slipped away from them, unheeded, and he was free to wander to the back and wait for the performances to begin. 

He didn’t usually watch them but there were some people he knew playing, and then some people he had heard about, and somewhere in between he’d have to play himself. He had left his guitar with his friends, leaving him free to sit at a table, shredding napkins in his long, nervous fingers, and soaking in the tobacco smoke and sweaty damp of others. 

The evening passed, and nothing seemed to change except the colour of the guitars that were twanged on the tiny stage. Bob sat, head ducked in between his collar points, body still as if frozen, smoke swirling from his mouth. But then, as his friend Jimmy left the stage, dragging his guitar behind him like a chain, a strange being floated onto the stage like a ghost and stayed there, looking not only out of place, but basically impossible.

Bob´s eyes narrowed. His hand froze in the act of bringing a cigarette to his lips. What was that thing? It stood on the stage like a wax figure, deathly-hued, glistening. It was black and white, black hair and a silvery-white face, a projection through time, a wavering hologram. Bob sat up, and stared. The creature pulled out a ukulele, stupidly small compared to his looming form, and strummed it sweetly. Then it sang, high notes, trebling like a bad recording on a 78, bopping its head of long silky curls to the rhythm. Was it a man, or a woman? It looked like neither. For a moment, Bob thought he had accidentally gotten high from other people’s smoke, but he was disillusioned by the sound of laughter from the audience around him. 

He looked around. People were coming from the woodwork to see this. ´I’d hate to be the one who has to follow this act, hoo boy,´ Bob thought. But wait. He was the one who had to follow this act. He swore under his breath, and stubbed out the cigarette in frustration. Applause burst forth from the crowd. The thing on the stage bowed elegantly, with many flourishing gestures, then started another song. Bob sat through two more, then got up and skulked away to tune his guitar. 

 

Amazingly, his gig, directly afterwards, went really well. He managed to pull the attention the creature, which was apparently called Tiny Tim, had created, towards himself by making a few cracks at him. He played a short, energised set that he felt was fresh and interesting after the perfumed haze of Tiny Tim, and it was appreciated. He came away feeling he had earned his 6 bucks for that night, and it was with some pleased smugness that he could face this Tiny Tim person when he saw him afterwards, while cleaning his harmonica.

“Hey man,” Bob said. “hey, that was real gone.”

“Excuse me?” Tiny Tim said, in a pleasant newscaster’s baritone. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re referring to.” Bob laughed.

”Ha! You’re unreal. What are you, my grandma?” he said. “Get real, lane.”

“No, I’m afraid I´m not.” Tiny Tim said, smiling uncertainly.

“Well, you sure sound like her. But never mind, cat. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.” Bob said. He felt generous, after his own triumph. He slapped Tiny Tim gently on the shoulder, and then pushed him towards the bar. 

“Oh, I’m afraid I couldn’t…” Tiny protested, but Bob set him on a bar stool, and ordered a whisky for himself and a rum and coke for the lady. “Thank you, but I…” Tiny went on, but Bob interrupted him.

“So you’re Tiny Tim, huh?” he said. “I’m Bob.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bob, I’m sure.” Tiny said. The barkeep pushed a drink towards him, looking at him with a carefully expressionless face. Tiny toyed with the lemon on the edge of the glass. Bob gulped down some whisky.

“I like your sounds, man. You play that uke real good.” He said, amiably. “How’d you get that good?”

“Oh, you know, just practising…” Tiny said, politely. 

“Oh yeah? Playing along, huh?” Bob said. 

“Indeed.” Tiny said. He stayed reserved, and polite, and his small fingers stroked the cold glass in front of him idly. 

“Yeah, what kind of sides?” Bob said. He knew some of the stuff Tiny had played, vaudeville mainly, he liked it a lot even though he played mostly blues. “Vaudeville stuff, right?”

“Oh, some. Some from musicals and movies. Nothing dirty, you know.” Tiny said. 

“Yeah, some Irving Berlin in there. So no Mae West for you?” Bob said. Tiny looked a little horrified.

“Oh no, Mr. Bob!” he said. Bob suppressed a laugh, and winked at the barman who was listening in on their conversation. How rich was this guy? He couldn’t believe it. But he liked him. He was gentle, and the complete lack of anything fashionable about him- the absence of the beat-slang used by their set to distinguish each other, or clothes, or even hip music- amused him. 

“You know what, Tiny?” He said. Tiny looked at him with wide eyes. “I like you. Yeah, you know? You’re a big tickle.” 

“Thank you.” Tiny said. “I think.” He looked slightly mollified, and actually took a sip from his drink. The two men spent some time discussing old records and films, and got on better than either expected, so it seemed natural that they would walk back together to continue their conversation, Tiny Tim holding his ukulele case gingerly in one hand and his bag in the other, Dylan with his guitar slung like a cross over his back. They made a strange pair. 

“Where do you live?” Tiny said, nervously brushing the hair from his face as it blew against it in thin strands. 

“Oh down the other side, but it’s okay, I can walk back later or back to the club, you know. Johnny’s got a pad over it and I can stay with him.” Bob said, hoping he could stay with Tiny instead. He was curious. But Tiny only nodded. 

Finally they arrived at a large brownstone building, and climbed up long stairs to the one room apartment that belonged to Tiny. It was huge and bare, pale wooden floorboards covered only by the enormous stacks of records and paper piled everywhere. “Wow, you weren’t kidding when you said you had a lot of sides,” Bob said, laughing a little to himself. “Is all that sheets, too?” 

“Oh, yes, all old sheet music.” Tiny said, trying to be humble, while Bob looked around with his sharp little viper’s eyes. “Would you like a drink?” he asked. “Only soda, I’m afraid.”

“Hell, no sweat.” Bob said, and sneezed from the dust that came off the 78s he had started to rummage in. “Root beer’s fine, dad.” Tiny blinked at that. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to beat talk: the kind of clubs he usually played in had their own gay code slang, and beats came there a lot too, and borrowed some phrases, so he had some experience with it, but it was limited. This Bob fellow seemed nice, though, and clever. He really felt like a kindred spirit, in some ways.

The two men sat on the floor, swilling from brown soda bottles and rummaging through records happily, then playing them, one after the other, on the beat-up record player in the middle of the room. Then Bob got his guitar out and sang Leslie Sarony songs- ironically- and Tiny Tim played yodels- faithfully- and they both dissolved in giggles.

“Yeah, I guess I just wasn’t cut out to go “Tweet tweet ho ho hum hum,” Bob said. 

“Oh no, it was very funny.” Tiny said. 

“Then it’s a shame that comedy ain’t my game,” Bob said, pleased with himself for rhyming spontaneously.

“Why, yes.” Tiny said. He dragged a hand through his long hair, and yawned. “I think I’ll turn in. It is so late.” he said. “You could stay but I don’t have an extra bed.” He looked at Bob from the corners of his eyes. “I’m ever so sorry.” he said, his voice back to the strange, simpering belle drawl he had on stage. Bob looked back at him, that face that seemed like a caricature of his own. Except for the eyes, that were dark and big and swam with hidden emotions, very different from Bob’s own coldly observant ones. He wondered what lurked in them now, shimmering blackly in the light of the single naked light bulb. He felt as if something was expected of him, but he didn’t know what.

“I’d better split, then.” Bob said. But neither moved, and neither looked at the other. After a few moments of awkward silence, Tiny got up, laboriously, and offered a small hand to Bob. He took it, grinning falsely. “Thanks, man.” he said. He held it as he stood, his sharp, bony hand clasping Tiny’s soft one. “Thanks.” he said again, and leant in and kissed Tiny on the cheek, wondering if he dared to… 

In the end, he didn’t need to, as Tiny clasped his hand, so tight it hurt, and turned his head to kiss him, timidly, on the lips. Bob looked at him through his eyelashes, running his lips over Tiny’s tremulous, lush ones, and parted them with a simple movement of his clever tongue. He held his hands behind Tiny’s neck, buried in the thick hair, tangled endlessly around his fingers in a way he had never felt before. It was like kissing a girl from a Walter Scott novel, he thought for a moment, sinking slowly into the fleshy warmth of Tiny’s embrace. The kiss grew more frantic, their long noses bumping against each other, and Bob leaning against Tiny’s body as his hands dug into the broad shoulders. Suddenly, though, Tiny pulled away, pushing Bob from him. 

“Oh, no.” he said, his deep voice full of sadness. “I’m not that kind of man.”

“Quit jiving me, man, I’m not fooling around here.” Bob said, irritably. He felt embarrassed, now, for what he had just done, and bad, but he wanted it, still. 

“Oh, you beats.” Tiny said, with a nervous high laugh. “Always seeking thrills.” He did not look at Bob, though, and looked so pitiful the latter couldn’t really feel angry. 

“Whatever you want, man,” Bob said, running a hand over his face in frustration. “You know where to find me.” He reached out to run a hand over Tiny’s arm, who recoiled from his touch. Bob frowned, his hard eyes losing a little of their coldness over this strange creature who would not let him near. 

Then he picked up his guitar from the dusty floor, and slung it over his back. “See you around.” He said, and walked backwards to the door, his gaze, hopeful, on Tiny. But there was no response to it, and he was not invited back in. He walked through the door, and closed it with a slam.


End file.
